


Aftermath

by Zoadgo



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Smut, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The delinquents on Earth all have their scars. Emotional, physical, usually both. But even though the scars still hurt sometimes, they don't have to stop them from living. And, as Bellamy and Clarke have found out, you can share the burden of past injuries with another to lighten the load.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

Life on Earth had not been kind to them. When the delinquents had landed in the forest, they had been young. Their skin had been unblemished and pale, their bodies had been slender, their minds relatively pure. But Earth had changed them all. The sun had scorched their flesh, burning and weathering the fragile tissue until it had darkened, and wounds had turned to scars, tougher but less sensitive. Long hours of work, small rations, the stress of being hunted and fighting for their lives or merely to survive had burned away every ounce of fat and strengthened every fibre of muscle to its maximum. Their minds… well, it’s best to say that none of them had remained optimists for long. At least not those who had survived.

Clarke stares out the window of her small cabin as she reflects on their past. It’s only right, in her mind, to remember everything that has happened. It’s the only way they can honour their dead, after the fires had burned everything and erased so many from memory. They have to recall every moment, every change, every trial, and every life that has fallen on Earth. It’s far too easy to be caught up in the now, in the fight for every breath, the struggle to keep that breath from burning your lungs and being exhaled as a cloud of poison gas. It’s too simple to slip and stray from what makes them human, what keeps them separate from the Grounder tribes, and makes their primitive collection of huts a settlement rather than a village.

She hears Bellamy before he opens the door and sets foot in their house. Years of survival has them all in a constant state of hyper-awareness, the thirty-odd of them that remain. He doesn’t announce himself or knock, knowing that she’s already aware of his presence. When you spend as much time around someone as they have, it’s all too easy to recognize the other by their gait, the cadence of breathing, or the way they clear their throat. Bellamy and Clarke have lead their people together for years, side by side in every conflict, making sacrifices and sharing in accomplishments as equals. There’s not much unfamiliar between them at this point.

Clarke hears a shift of fabric and a thud of boots as Bellamy sits on their bed and throws his shoes across the room. It’s a familiar pattern. She used to lecture him on it, but he never remembers to take them off at the door. It’s this familiarity that comforts Clarke. It draws her out of her reverie, preventing her from slipping into the dangerous darkness that lingers around her at every waking moment. Bellamy is her anchor to the now, her relief from the scars Earth has inflicted on her. He silences the part of her mind that whispers, quiet and seductive, encouraging her to run, to kill, to hurt, to die. The part that glorifies all the death she’s experienced and decries every good thing she’s accomplished, cursing her as selfish and unhelpful. _Look at how many you killed._ It never talks of those she’s saved.

When Clarke’s gaze falls on Bellamy, she doesn’t know whose scars are worse. Hers still try to kill her with every breath she takes, but his are on display for the world to see. Him and Finn share them, matching patchworks of pink and red and white marring much of their skin. They had made it to the tunnels, but not quite fast enough. Clarke stares at Bellamy’s scars, as she always does, trying to imagine the pain he must have experienced while she was at Mount Weather, warm and cared for at the price of being their test subject. As always, she fails to come close. The human mind is funny like that, it can’t quite recall pain or envision it as something real. It’s a ghost of a sense, only grasped fully when it clings to them, gnawing with razor jaws and burning teeth.

“Sorrow isn’t something that can be weighed, princess.” Bellamy’s voice is rough, his throat having been burned along with the left side of his body. Of course he knows what she’s thinking, they’ve talked about it many times. She’s cried in his arms, saying it’s not fair that they have to suffer. That they should still suffer and fear, when they’re safe for the moment. He’s cried in her arms, cursing the flames and his own slowness, angry at himself for not saving her from the Mountain Men. They know the darkest parts of each other, and they’ve never run from that darkness.

“I know.” Her smile is sad, but at least it’s a smile. Bellamy stands from the bed and his lips quirk at the corners, encouraging a small light within her to brighten. He is her positivity these days, and she is his strength, when burned tissue fails him. 

When his hand, rough and dirty -- but who cares anymore -- touches her jaw, the light flares and the darkness shies away from them. Clarke leans her head into the caress, craving the comfort of his touch. His thumb brushes over her lips, and Clarke presses a light kiss to the pad of it.

With a gentle shove, she sends Bellamy back to the bed, where he sits again with a gentle smile. Clarke steps forward slowly until she’s standing the bearest hair of a fraction of an inch away from Bellamy. They stay perfectly still in the silence for a moment, neither of them daring to break the stillness with a word or a twitch of a muscle. 

And then Clarke reaches out, daring for a contact she’s never allowed herself before. Of course she’s seen Bellamy’s scars and talked with him about them, but she’s never touched them. Out of respect, out of fear of what Bellamy might think, she’s kept her distance, paying them no more head with her embrace than the rest of him. But now she reaches out, with fingers that are scarred themselves from numerous scrapes and slight burns, placing them lightly on the very edge of the damaged flesh. She feels Bellamy inhale sharply, air moving against her abdomen. She looks down, afraid to see some form of pain or fear on his face. But Bellamy just looks sad.

“Clarke,” his voice is quiet, almost a whisper, “You don’t have to.”

Clarke shakes her head, short-cropped hair brushing at her jaw. “I want to.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment, silently asking for permission. Asking to be allowed to map every inch of him, even those areas that he’s ashamed of: the pieces of him that she adores, because they show how he survived; the left side of his body more burned than Finn, who has a clear patch where Bellamy had thrown his arm over the other boy in a vain attempt to save him from the inferno. She implores him with her eyes, and eventually he gives the slightest nod. Clarke’s smile is joy and relief as she sinks to her knees, fingers still bordering on the edge of the ravaged tissue.

At this height, she can see every bump and valley and crease in his skin. She wants to trace them all, and so she does. First Clarke trails her hand where the skin can still feel, where dirt and distance had saved him from the searing heat. In her mind, flames flicker on her fingertips, echoes of past tortures. Bellamy breathes shallowly, aiding her in remove his clothes each time her path encounters another obstacle.

Then her attentions drift inwards, caressing the skin that he can’t feel anymore. Not the way he used to, at least. At this point, his gaze follows her hand, watching her feeling every inch of his scars. His badges of honour, given through pain and blood and tears, received without being asked for or desired. She takes her time, ensuring that her flesh will remember every sensation that he has been denied, through her decision. Her hand on the lever locking him out of the dropship with the enemy, with the fire.

When the last crack in his torso has been traced, Clarke lays her palms flat on his chest. One hand touches whole muscle, strong and dark, and the other rests on a rough patch of angry red. But her scars blend with his, the slight bends in her fingers where broken bones and damaged joints haven’t been allowed to heal properly, making everything of the image she sees somehow complementary. Every “flaw” she sees is a sign of strength, a sign of surviving.

Bellamy covers her hands with his own, scars on his fingers different from hers but just as familiar. She looks up from his chest and sees tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, but a smile on his face.

“Thank you.” And Clarke hears everything he doesn’t say. Thank you for accepting me, all of me, for not making my suffering more ugly than it already is. Thank you for touching a part of me I deny. Thank you for loving me.

Clarke doesn’t respond with words. They don’t speak much, anyway, words never seeming to cut it in the life they’ve found themselves living. She responds with her lips pressed against him, craving the clarity that he provides her, and lending him her strength through passionate embrace. His hands curve behind her back, pulling her up onto the bed with him, pressing her against him. They breathe the same air, nothing toxic or painful about it. When they are together, the difficulties of Earth seem manageable, trivial even.

Clarke’s clothes soon find themselves mingling with Bellamy’s in a pile on the floor, forgotten until tomorrow at least. Clarke doesn’t give a thought to the garments, lost in the feel of Bellamy’s heat against her, his breath ghosting down her neck and his mouth pressing searing kisses to her chest. She arches against his mouth, melting into the slow and sensuous touches he bestows upon her body. The first few times they had been together it had been all fierceness and fight. But their love life seems to mirror that of their settlement, aggressive in times of war and gentle in times of peace.

Clarke raises herself slightly, shifting in Bellamy’s grip and reaching between them to guide him into her. She lowers herself slowly, savouring every second of bliss until she’s seated on his lap and they breath in unison for a moment. In this moment, her mind is clear, alert and peaceful in a way it never is elsewhise. Then she shifts and pleasure crowds in, a welcome contrast to the darkness. Together they move, hands roaming over each other, seeking and receiving every form of comfort they need in their intimacy.

Their lips meet again as heat coils in Clarke’s belly, muscles clenching and pace increasing in order to chase the climax she desires. Bellamy moans against her mouth, and Clarke sighs against his, tension releasing in a euphoric release of endorphins and tremor of muscles around Bellamy. He thrusts within her a few more times as she rides out her orgasm, before coming completely undone, seated deep inside her. They stay entwined for a moment, in the moment where Earth doesn’t seem cruel and deadly. 

And although that feeling fades as they separate and lay down in their bed, it doesn’t disappear completely. When they are together, as hard as the word gets, it seems manageable. Together they can conquer everything, and together they share the scars that come with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is what happens when I drink and have ideas. Super huge thanks to [coldsaturn](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com) for being amazing and making sense of my ramblings!
> 
> I would say more here, but real life has been killing me and doesn't look likely to stop any time soon, so I hope you guys enjoy this! Come talk at me [on tumblr](http://randommaces.tumblr.com)
> 
> As always, thanks for commenting/viewing/leaving kudos <3


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